The Only Light
by chezchuckles
Summary: No Light, No Light continuation. A Dash Away prequel. The morning after that terrible case. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**The Only Light**

* * *

><p>The only solution was to stand and fight.<br>And my body was loosened;  
>I was set alight.<br>But you came over me like some holy light.

And although I was burning,  
>You're the only light.<p>

Only if for a night.

-'Only If For A Night,' Florence + the Machine

* * *

><p>He's so grateful that he's woken up first.<p>

Castle finds himself sprawled over the left side of her bed, with Kate diagonal so that just her toes touch him. Kate's on her stomach with her face turned away, her back bare. He turns onto his side to be closer, sliding up so that their bodies are parallel, and rests his palm flat against her back - the only place on her body not criss-crossed with shallow wounds or purple with bruises.

He swallows hard; his wrist is bleeding again. He holds himself carefully away; his body aches - both good and bad - and he can't imagine how she ignored her own aches last night. And it wasn't just once or twice, but all afternoon, all night, once again at two this morning when he woke sweating from a dream he couldn't remember to find her draped against him.

She didn't want to talk to him, didn't want to hear it, and honestly, he's not sure he wanted to say anything either. He doesn't want to ever go back to that place, the reek of fish guts and blood, not even to talk about it. He still sees too much of it in her body, in his.

He brushes his hand down her back.

It's enough that they both know. That it's shared between them. No more needs to be said.

She stirs and turns her head to him, but her eyes are still closed. Her breath escapes on a long sigh and he brings his fingers up her spine to the curve of her cheek. She shivers, her shoulders hunching, and then her eyes slowly slide open.

He doesn't know what to expect.

Kate watches him for a long time, her lashes dark and fine, framing bruised circles under her intent eyes. She's not smiling, but then again, he isn't either. He hurts in strange places. His shoulders feel shredded down to nothing by a cheese grater, his body put back together wrong. He can't imagine how she feels.

He has no idea what to expect. He sees her throat work to swallow, then a flicker of pain across her face. But she brings up her arm between them, sliding the back of her hand against the sheets until her fingertips touch his elbow and stop there to curl at his skin.

She still looks at him; he's got his own hand at her shoulder, his fingers brushing her jaw, but he sees, when he really looks, the bruise there too, withdraws his hand to skim lightly down her arm. Bruises there too. Her bicep has lines of dried blood in even rows; he doesn't remember seeing that last night. He tried not to see any of it; she didn't want to be seen.

Kate is trying to keep it off her face; he sees that too. He stops touching; her eyes tremor shut.

"Hurts," she breathes out. And before he can even be sure she's said it, she's pushing up, out of her own bed, and heading to the bathroom.

He can see the discolored bruises, the edges of bandages, the black-red lacerations, the long and pale line of her mostly unmarked back. A black and blue kiss of a bruise at the base of her tailbone, a matching kiss at the sharp jut of vertebrae between her shoulders. She lifts a hand to her neck as she walks away; he catches the messy bandage over her wrist, half hanging off and exposing the black knots of the stitches, feels his heart twist in his throat.

She doesn't close the door, but disappears around the corner. The shower trembles on, growls through the pipes before the water gets up to its full force.

He rolls onto his back and closes his eyes, breathing slowly.

Okay, Kate.

He'll play this her way. Like nothing happened.

He's just not sure which part didn't happen. The butchering of her body or the worship.

* * *

><p>He rifles through the linen closet in the hall, finds an extra tube of toothpaste but no toothbrush. He's put his boxers and white undershirt back on, but he's left his clothes in the floor where they fell last night. He heads for the kitchen and splashes water on his face from the tap, then squirts toothpaste onto his finger and works it around his gums, his teeth, wincing even as he does.<p>

His shoulders are killing him. The half-moon slit at his wrist from the cuffs throbs. He wonders how Kate is managing the shower. She's got the stitches on her inside thigh that he took pains to avoid last night, sometimes not so successfully. No wonder she hurts. Still, he doesn't regret it, wouldn't take it back.

He tries to plan his next move. Is she going back in to work today? Of course she is. This is Kate Beckett. To be honest, he doesn't need to be there too. He can't even. . .can't fathom not staying at home, letting himself be made over by Alexis and his mother. Oh, well, actually, Alexis probably has classes all day; she often heads back to a friend's dorm room. But if he calls, she'll come. He shouldn't call though.

He shivers as the water runs over his wrist, jerks back.

He doesn't want to think about this anymore. Castle can understand Beckett now in a way he never imagined. He wants to bury this as far down as he can, ignore the reasons behind his mangled body, hers.

The scent of strong coffee assaults him. He turns in the kitchen and realizes she's got a timer on her coffeemaker; a fresh pot is waiting. Ah. Heaven. That's exactly what he needs, some normal routines again. He always gets her coffee.

He leaves the toothpaste on the counter next to the sink and pulls down a mug. A grin cracks his too-worried face when he sees the logo: _Instant Human: Just Add Coffee._

Okay, so that helps a little. He makes her coffee precisely as she likes it and heads back for her bedroom. She's still in the shower; she might be awhile. All those cuts. . .

He won't think about it right now. Glancing around the room, he tries to find the perfect place. On her dresser in front of the bed is a wooden box with the top open; her gun and badge are inside, the chain with the ring on it. Her dad's watch. Castle trails his fingers over the ring, feels every link in the chain.

He settles the mug next to the box and takes a deep breath, trying to layer strength over himself from somewhere. From the feel of her empty bedroom and the sound of the water echoing on the tiles, from the touch of her fingers at his elbow this morning and the intensity in her eyes when she looked at him.

* * *

><p>He makes breakfast then, listening closely for her once the shower shuts off, the sounds of her opening drawers, blow-drying her hair, the silence of her putting on makeup. It sounds familiar, even if he's never heard it before, comforting. It eases something in his chest.<p>

She comes out of her room fully clothed, but with that mug in her hand, her eyes fixed on him. Castle watches her walk across the room towards him, dressed for work and her hair down in those soft waves. When she gets to the kitchen, he can see how carefully she holds herself, how she's pushing back the ache.

"Morning," she says gently, but a light is there in her eyes, buried under a few layers of shine and trauma, but still there. That it's there at all makes him proud, fills him with an equal light.

Kate cradles her mug to her chest, moves around the kitchen island to stand at his side. She rubs her thumb over his bottom lip, looks at him as if he's completely unexpected, then presses her lips to the corner of his mouth.

If he was thinking about this moment at all, he thought she wouldn't still be so enigmatic. But this is Kate, and she might always remain something of a mystery to him. As if testing the limits, he turns his head towards her, caressing her lips, not hesitant but definitely soft, nearly hovering.

She lifts her eyes to him, a trace of pain at the back of her vision.

Kate shifts away to grab plates from the cabinet behind him. She sets the dining room table, pours him juice and milk both, moving around him easily. He finishes the scrambled eggs and pulls the stack of pancakes out of the oven where he was keeping them warm.

When he places them on the table, her eyes meet his, her lips pressed together. He wants this morning as redolent with symbolism as possible, make sure there's no mistaking what he means, even if he can't say it. Even if the words are lost somewhere in the horror of yesterday.

Castle eats breakfast and watches her check messages on her phone, her hair falling over her shoulder. There's no syrup; she didn't have any and he didn't want to leave to get it. But he soaks margarine up with his pancake and finishes quickly.

He takes his empty plate to the sink, rinses it, puts it in the dishwasher. He starts cleaning up the kitchen, but Kate gets up from the table and walks over to him slowly, stays his hand with hers.

"You cooked; I'll clean. Go get a shower. Get dressed."

He meets her eyes, can't help darting in for a hummingbird of a kiss, light and quick. She lifts her hand and rubs his cheek with her fingers. He doesn't want to leave the room.

She shakes her head at him. "The shower will take longer than you think," she says with a grim look in her eyes.

He reaches up and gently grasps her fingers, pulls her hand down to where he can see it. Her long sleeves hide the bandages, but he slides the material back. She's wrapped fresh, clean gauze over the wounds.

"How'd you keep them from getting wet?"

She doesn't smile; a darkness flickers at the back of her eyes even as her fingers curl around his grip. "Hard to do. The. . .stitches in my thigh are waterproof. Helps."

He quirks a smile, can't help it; he just can *not* help it. "Sure does."

Kate presses her lips together, raises her eyebrows at him, but that something good is back in her eyes, some of the darkness gone. The line of her jaw and the light across her cheekbones makes her look nearly radiant, makes him breathless, even with the way things ache.

"Go shower," she says clearly, her voice rich with the only golden treasure that matters.

* * *

><p>They go downstairs together; he's left his shirt untucked because he's going back to his loft to change clothes and spend some time with his family. She seems to find it disconcerting because she keeps narrowing her eyes at him as they walk down the stairs, then she flicks her finger at the tails of his dress shirt with a look.<p>

He shrugs at her. He would say something inane like _You don't have to go in today_ but of course she does. Castle knows he just can't do that, not after yesterday, not even to stare aimlessly at her. That would be a bad idea. Kate wouldn't like that, and he knows he would spend his free time dwelling on all the ways yesterday might have gone so very wrong.

They separate down on the sidewalk. She takes a moment in the early morning light to stop him with a hand fisted in the tail of his shirt. Castle watches her study him for a moment, then is taken by surprise when she lifts up, uses his shirt for leverage to press her lips against his.

When she pulls back, that ribbon of pain has reappeared. He frowns.

"Hurts," she murmurs, and instead of crossing her arms over her chest, she seems to cradle them against her. He has a flash of memory - the wicked edge of the filet knife carving around her belly button. His heart pounds, his vision narrows to a pinpoint - only Kate.

Castle wants to touch her, but she looks too ragged to touch. Something in her eyes warns him that touching her would be bad, might actually finish breaking her.

So he goes home; she goes to the precinct.

* * *

><p>For the rest of the day, they don't talk to each other about what's happened, but she texts him yes to his dinner suggestion. He finds a website that sells pillows in the shapes of medieval weapons and buys a mace, sends her the shipping notice. She returns the email with a link to a video of the Ultimate Pillow Fight flashmob in Union Square.<p>

It's not that they're not talking. It's what they're not talking about that still worries him.

He can't bring himself to go to the precinct to pick her up, but thankfully she comes over instead. He realizes when he opens the door to her that it might be a long time before either of them texts an address asking to meet.

Yeah. Still not talking.

He's made pasta and chicken, tossed a salad with cranberries and red vinaigrette dressing. His mother actually bought him a loaf of good French bread. Of course he didn't say much about what happened between him and Kate the previous night, but. . .she seemed to know. She disappeared an hour ago; Alexis called and cheerfully told him she had a mixer at the student center. He hasn't said a word to her about yesterday.

Kate shakes her head at the wine, but he's already poured it. They sit down to eat at the kitchen island because at least then, they're side by side. Also, the dining room table gives him strange flashbacks to a wooden worktable in a warehouse. He's got no idea if it would affect her the same way, but he's not willing to risk it.

They eat, she laughs at something stupid he does, her cheeks pink. She's taken a few sips of her glass; she tells him that the pasta is good and asks where he got it.

"I made it."

"No."

"Seriously."

She does that lip pressing thing again, the side of her mouth quirks, and she leans in towards him.

He's about to kiss her when she gasps and jerks back, curling in on herself, lowering her head as her body bows.

"Kate?"

She waves him off and draws her arms against her chest, breathing slowly.

He waits it out because he's certain that touching her would only make it hurt more. The only thing that keeps his stomach from churning is the regret he saw in her eyes the second she pulled away from him.

Her head is in her hand, her fingers scratch over her forehead. He slides his arm across the back of her chair, brushes his fingers over her spine. At least there he knows that her skin is undamaged, her bruises not as vivid.

After awhile she straightens up incrementally and flashes him a grateful look, taking her fork off the plate and going back to her dinner. He keeps his hand at her spine for the rest of their meal.

* * *

><p>She goes home alone. Before she steps out of his loft, he gets to kiss her, slowly, with relish, his palms cradling her cheeks, keeping his body carefully away from hers.<p>

And then she leaves and he doesn't get to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

Beckett lifts her eyes from her computer when she feels the disruption in the bullpen. He is stepping off the elevator with two coffees in his hand; she swears she can smell the wonderful aroma of coffee filling her bedroom. Her bedroom? No. The precinct.

She bites her lip, watches him heading for her.

Castle.

She sees the stunned look in his eyes and knows he's gotten the same Wall of Blue treatment downstairs that she got yesterday when she came in. Even the detectives stop to lay a hand on his shoulder or give him a grateful nod. He's been following her long enough to earn their respect, but now he's one of them. He's proven that - no matter what - he has his partner's back.

Her lips twitch. More ways than one.

When he gets to her desk, Castle hands her a cup of coffee with bewilderment in his eyes, sinks down to his seat. She sees him roll his shoulders, the shimmy of strain on his face. She remembers. . .more than she'd like to. He ripped out of the handcuffs to get to her. To make it stop. Ripped out of them.

She can't imagine what his body must feel like; she has no idea how his thumbs aren't broken. She did discover that he dislocated one thumb and did heavy tissue damage to the other. He doesn't seem to have any trouble reaching out for her though.

"At the risk of sounding entirely too cocky, I think I just got. . .applauded downstairs." He sets his coffee on her desk and lays his hands on his thighs, blinking at her.

"Welcome to the force, Castle," she says, pressing her lips together.

"What?"

"They all know." _How you saved my life._

He has no idea what he's done; she sees it in his eyes. While her own consciousness had drifted somewhere above the whole thing, she does still have some of it in her head. Whatever he did, however he did it - most of that is gone. Flashes of memory. But does Castle remember any of it?

He deserves their applause. What Castle did was. . .miraculous.

When she saw, just past his arms, the machete blade lodged in the skull, she was certain the man was dead; he isn't. He survived. And she honestly doesn't know how she feels about that.

"I don't like it," he says softly, and his eyes cut to the detectives still regarding them. It might be awhile before this dies down, before the seriousness of what happened makes way for the inevitable gallows humor.

She watches him shift in the chair. "Are you sure you want to be here today?"

He turns his head back to her, a different kind of confusion on his face. "Where else would I - oh. No. I need to. . .be useful."

Beckett nods; if her body didn't hurt so very much, she might lean over and lay her hand on his knee, maybe even hold his hand.

But her body still hates her.

* * *

><p>There is a hearing she has to attend - they have to attend. Castle follows behind her; she is stronger for the presence at her back.<p>

When she opens the court room doors and slides into the bench seat behind the prosecutor's table, the ADA turns around and raises his hand to shake hers. She inclines her head towards him but doesn't offer her hand.

Castle sits just to her left, a thin line of space between them, almost none at all, but enough to keep them from jostling elbows. That is good. Necessary.

The ADA gives her a funny look, shifts to Castle. He glances over at Beckett, then to the prosecutor.

"Can't raise my arms too well; you'll excuse me." But it's not a question. Castle has been to a physical therapist almost every other day for his shoulders; he tore some ligaments. She doesn't think about how.

This might force her to.

When the man shuffles into the court room in leg chains that are clipped to his handcuffs, Beckett feels the shiver that passes through Castle. She lays her hand between them on the bench and touches her finger to his thigh. He takes in a long breath and looks straight ahead, towards the empty witness seat.

Beckett decides not to take his lead. The face that leans over her in her nightmares isn't this face; it's been twisted by the red veil of agony. She studies the man's pitted cheeks, too-bright eyes, the twisted corner of one lip. He is looking back at her as well; he studies. He doesn't seem to see her, only. . .autopsy with his gaze.

That is the face. That is the man. He is just a man.

Without his sharp knives.

When he turns to sit at the defense's table, she is given a brief flash of the nasty, inflamed wound running down the left side of his head, his hair in clumps.

Castle did that. With the machete. The machete meant for her. Castle did that.

She shifts her eyes away, feels everything rising up her throat, swallows hard to keep it down. Not today. She's an NYPD detective; she will do her job; she will testify in the preliminary hearings. Castle will testify. It will be mercifully quick.

The scalpel wound in his right forearm - she saw it yesterday when he rolled his sleeves up in the conference room. A pink pucker. Stitches. The sutures in the top of his thigh are from the filleting knife - when she had the opportunity to see them, she didn't look. She wonders now. Her own, rather superficial scalpel wounds are thin red lines that itch as they heal. Most are all but gone. The fillet wounds are stripes up her thigh, and then a pucker of stitches at the top stripe. Those still throb at night.

Soon. Soon it won't hurt so much.

Castle's left hand drops into his lap; he rubs at his wrist, just above the stitches. Kate reaches over, little flames of warning licking up her sides, and wraps her fingers around his scratching ones. He flashes her a look, part little boy caught out and part desperate man, and she squeezes his hand.

"We can do this," she says quietly. She is proud that her voice never once falters.

* * *

><p>Castle keeps his hand in hers on the long walk out of the courthouse. A light touch, just fingers, because he knows that the stitches in her wrists are more irritated than his own, and if *he* feels the need to scratch at them all the time, she's got to be vibrating with the need. She also has some serious bruising. He thinks he still doesn't know the extent.<p>

"My handcuffs weren't faulty," she says, once they are clear of the front doors.

"I heard," he sighs.

"Do you remember how-?"

"No." He pauses a beat, then turns his head to look at her, so strong and determined and unmoved. A rock. She is so. . .amazing. "Do you?"

She shakes her head. "Not. . .pieces. Just pieces."

"I've been. . .seeing a psychiatrist. Only way I could get some sleeping pills," he finally admits.

Kate's fingers twitch in his; when she speaks, he hears the sigh in her voice. "I went back to mine."

Oh God, thank you. He. . .he hasn't known how to bring it up, how to make her understand, but it looks like she already figured it out.

"It helps?"

"Does it help you, Castle?" Heavy sarcasm laces her voice, but her eyes are vulnerable.

"Not every time," he admits. "Sometimes it makes it worse."

She nods. "Did that, in there? Do you think that will make it worse for us?"

"Yes and no." He keeps them walking, heading towards the 12th but hoping they might stop at Remy's first for lunch. The hearing took all of their morning. "Yes, because it was good to tell the story. I needed to tell the story. And no, because I had to sit there in the same room as him."

Kate draws her fingers up into a fist, squeezing his, before releasing to hang loosely together again. "Opposite for me. Yes because I sat in the same room with him, looked in his face, and saw how wrecked he is, how damaged, how powerless. And no because. . .because I had to tell *my* story. Give it words; and words are power."

Castle stops them at the crosswalk, takes that moment to study her - the bruises lingering on her cheekbones, the crisscross of just-now fading red lines at her neck, her collarbone, disappearing down her chest. She wears her everyday clothes, doesn't hide any of it; he took her lead yesterday and rolled up his sleeves when he got hot, just like he would have before.

It was liberating not to care. And yes, people looked at the angry pink skin, the black stitches, they looked. They remembered, which was the worst of it. But he found *he* didn't remember quite so much.

"Next time, I'll tell our story, you face him down. Okay?"

She huffs a breath and tugs him forward into the crosswalk. They both hang back a little to keep away from the crowd; they've learned how to angle their bodies to avoid contact with other people.

Sometimes Alexis forgets and throws her arms around his shoulders. It dropped him to his knees last week.

"How long will you need physical therapy?" she says, once they've crossed to the other side and are out of the flow of heavy traffic.

"Three weeks. Supposedly. They do this really cool thing where they send sonar down into the ligaments and tendons and muscles. At first, it seemed kinda crazy, doing an ultrasound on my shoulders? But, Kate, wow. After they do that - it's like everything tight has relaxed."

"Oh. Ultrasound?"

"Yeah. It's amazing. Not just for pregnant ladies," he jokes, cracking a smile at her. His lips feel stiff at the gesture but when she catches it, her eyes flare, then crinkle at the edges.

It *has* been awhile, he realizes, since he smiled for no real reason.

Even for her.

He attempts a better one, letting it break open his face.

She's staring at him, something coming to life in her eyes, struggling out. "Castle. I'm only going to say this once."

Uh-oh. Don't make jokes about ultrasound?

"That morning you stumbled into the boathouse on the Hudson, that morning you. . .when he chained you up to that hook and said to me _He's next_ and then pulled out his fillet knife-"

He doesn't want to know; he doesn't want to hear this. He needs. . .for it to not fill up his head again.

"I saw everything so clearly. What I told the judge this morning is all factually accurate. But what happened. . .what happened is that I saw my whole life in you, Castle. And all I could think to do was. . .was make it last as long as possible. If I could hold out long enough, then maybe Ryan or Esposito would find you before he could get to you."

He can't move. Can't keep walking down the street like none of this ever happened, like the reason he avoids contact with people is just some stupid sports injury or a work-related accident.

She crowds closer to him, forcing him back against the concrete of the building, people maneuvering around them to get to lunch or back to work, none of them seeing what's really happening here.

"Castle. You saved my life twice that morning. You got him before he could do anything. . .permanent. But when you showed up, you were a reason - the only reason I could see - to live, to keep fighting."

He shuts his eyes, has to breathe, tilts his head back to gulp air. He'd been at his apartment waiting on her for twelve hours that night, that morning. Eight of those she spent being cut open. And this - this foolish, stumbling arrival of his, getting knocked out and trussed up like a slaughtered beast - it was nothing to be proud of.

They are still inches apart, not touching, but he will do what he can.

Castle drops his head down, leans in, and hovers his mouth over hers, their breaths mingling, hot in the winter air. He touches his tongue to her bottom lip, then seals her mouth with his own, tasting her.

_I saw my whole life in you._

He sees his whole life in her every day. And has since the day he met her.

* * *

><p>Castle makes an appointment with a plastic surgeon weeks in advance, changes his mind at the last minute and gets them both in to his general practitioner. She resists at first.<p>

"What's wrong with going back to-?"

Castle shakes his head. "To the ER? Where we can let some apprentice nurse with a two-year degree dig bits of thread out of our thighs? Out of our wrists? I don't think so."

She shoots him a dark look. "The ones in my thigh are absorbable sutures - dissolvable. They've already started to. . .work their way out."

"Ew."

She bumps his shoulder with a narrowed-eye glare, and then immediately shoots him an apologetic look. Castle shakes his head. "It's better. Hardly felt that."

He leads her towards the bank of elevators in the building where his doctor has his offices. Beckett presses the call button.

"My bruises are just yellow now," she says, giving him a small flicker of a smile.

"Good." She still sports a rainbow of colors, some of which he's managed to see again, fleeting moments on her couch, in his study, moments that go nowhere. They don't touch; they can't.

In the elevator as it glides upward, Castle takes a moment to really look at her. He's only been seeing the wounds lately, but today feels different; she looks different. The bruises around her collarbone, at her cheekbones are gone, her face has some color and flush to it, probably from the winter wind. Christmas comes at the end of the month and she looks. . .ready.

He hopes so; he's ready to be a different person too. Less. . .scarred. More whole. A lot of that depends on Kate, but they've spent so much time being careful not to touch each other, not to make the pain worse (because who else knows what this feels like than his partner?), that he doesn't know how exactly to be different.

Inside the office, she makes him go first. He's got the stitches in his left wrist, right forearm, his thigh; his doctor lifts an eyebrow at him as if to say _All t__his?_ He gets a local anesthetic and turns his head away from it. He feels the tug against his skin, but it's over in moments.

When he passes Kate in the hall outside the exam rooms, she brushes her fingers down his forearm in askance. Castle rotates his arm and shows her the thin pink line, a little angry because of the poking, but healed cleanly. Her hand drifts to his right; he bares his forearm, lets her look, touch gently.

She nods at him and follows the nurse back.

* * *

><p>Kate is sneaking him these intensely evocative looks the moment she comes back to the waiting room. He's already paid for them, and when he turns back around at the door, he sees her fingers running over the thick red lines circling her wrists.<p>

He forgot that the wound went so far around, that the wire cut so deep. His stomach jerks but she reaches out her hand for him and grips his bicep, slides her hand down to his elbow.

Her smile is slow and pretty, lighting her whole face, and she's staring right into his eyes. He has to blink against the force of it.

As they leave, she slides closer to him in the hall. "No more stitches."

"Oh." Oh. Even in her thigh? Castle glances over at her; Kate's lips quirk at him. Guess those too.

She lets him have a closed-mouth smile, soft and beautiful. "It didn't hurt."

"Good," he says quietly, watching her beauty unfold the further they get from the doctor's office. She's nearly as tall as he is today, in those high-heeled boots. She's pulled her coat back on; she's buttoning it as they get on the elevator.

"It does feel good. Doesn't it?" she says back, and then takes his hand in hers. She doesn't have her gloves on even though he knows she's got them; she had them on earlier. Instead she squeezes his, keeps her eyes on him.

He tangles their fingers together and slides their hands into his coat pocket. She bumps her elbow into his side and presses her cheek against his shoulder for a second, like she's resting there.

"Let's not go back," she says after a second. "Not today. We can go back on Monday, but it's Friday and I-"

He glances over at her when she doesn't finish that sentence. Castle sees the dawn of her wide smile, the brilliant wash of light as her lashes lift and her cheeks grow round in the sharp angles of her face. Her lips spread, the lines around her mouth crease, her grin transforms her whole being - dark beauty and light gorgeous - pale skin and the black depths of her eyes.

And his. Isn't she? She transforms him too.

"Let's not go back," he agrees. It's only three, but a Beckett that wants to play hooky is so rare a gift that it's not even Beckett.

It's. . .Kate.

"Come home with me, Castle."

"Yeah?"

Her smile evolves into a smirk, her head tilts to see him better. "Yeah. It doesn't hurt at all."

_Hurts_ she whispered to him that morning.

And now it doesn't.

* * *

><p>She takes her time with him.<p>

Slides her hands up his sides under his coat, paying attention. He quivers but he doesn't flinch. Kate pushes his coat off his arms and runs her hands across his shoulders, back down his arms, the length and breadth and width of him.

He's trying to touch her, but she wants to keep this slow. She never wants it slow. But she knows if she lets him touch her now, the way he wants to, it'll be all over.

She wants to see - everything. Wants to trace her fingers over his remaining scars, kiss the gulping place at his throat as he tries to keep it together, press her palms against his back and have him meet her.

"Kate."

Not a question or a demand, just the soft sound of this man saying her name with such sighing relief. As if he's finished a race or completed a quest - found the end - and found it rich with all the things he wants.

Kate works at his belt next, slides it through the loops slowly, feeling his hips buck against her hands. She grins at him, has to tamp down on the pleasure that blooms in her belly. Make it last, make it long.

"Come to bed, Castle."

She hooks a finger in his belt loop and draws him back to her bedroom.

* * *

><p>Above him, with her hair falling down (he keeps lifting his hands to brush it back, tender), Kate takes her time, traces the ropy lines of his pecs (all that physical therapy), the hard edge of his collarbones, the twitching skin of his abdomen, lets her mouth follow after.<p>

He breathes slowly, or well, she thinks he's trying to, but every so often, either it's the slow, wet trail to his belly button or the undulation of her hips, every so often his heart races and he gasps, unable even to look at her.

She pauses, waits for him to settle, and then starts again.

Over and over, touching every pore, every ridge, every pulse. Mouth and fingers and the soft skin of her thighs brushing him - him - Castle so hot and liquid and amazing as she sets their pace. Castle.

Suddenly he rises up, crushing his chest against hers, arms wrapping around her, trapping her. She laughs and bites the straining tendon at his shoulder. His strong and healed shoulders.

"No more, Kate, can't take it-"

She shifts back and he gasps, shuts his eyes, a shudder racing through his body that she feels deep; she watches it wash over him, trembling and strong and on fire. She settles; he moves; and Kate has to close her eyes this time, bury her face against his skin as it comes.

So close. So close.

"Castle, I-"

So close. She lives for-

"Yeah. Me too, Kate, love, now-"

"I think I lo-"

_Oh_.

* * *

><p>A slow tug of awareness, and Kate smiles to herself. Shockingly lovely, just as intense as the first time. Even now, the heat of their bodies still vibrates in the sheets, the grey light of too-early a morning bathes her face. She hears the door click shut; that's it; and then the lock turns.<p>

Not abandonment, no regret. None of that. Too tired, too filled, too pleased, too good for any of that to encroach on the dawn. Too alive.

Kate slowly opens her eyes, is greeted with the blue numbers of her alarm clock, and then the folded piece of paper propped up by a coffee mug. Her name is written in cursive on the note. Cursive. Sometimes he is such a girl.

She reaches out a hand for it, shivering in the cool morning air of her bedroom, still naked under the sheets. She pulls the note closer and opens it.

_Alexis called; she's broken up with Ashley again and is on her way home. I stole your house key and I'll give it back to you at work today. Still. I wish I could've been here when you opened your eyes._

Kate curls her arm into her chest, bringing the note with it, closes her eyes for a moment to rest. She sees his face behind her eyelids, the crazy joy spilling out everywhere, the intensity of every touch - made more and deeper and electric by these long weeks without.

Her phone is on the bedside table; she plucks it from the charger and thumbs through the menu until she finds the camera. Before she can think about it and stop herself, she angles the phone, touches the screen.

She doesn't even look at it. She texts it straight to his phone and adds: _I opened my eyes._

She drops the phone back on the table and sits up, shivering, reaches for her coffee. Still warm. Saturday morning and she meant to spend it with him, but there's no rush. No hurry.

This is just the beginning.


	3. Chapter 3

He walks off the elevator distracted by his phone. Alexis has been texting him these internet meme pictures she's found in her Research class. Clearly not doing research, unless you count goofing off on the internet. He checks her latest message - a photo of The Little Mermaid with black-frame hipster glasses that says _Don't call me Ariel; My Name is Helvetica._

Castle laughs and glances up, realizes for one heart-stopping moment that he's walked into the bullpen without first checking to find Kate. For once, his attention wasn't completely on her.

Well, he needs to remedy that.

It takes only the movement of his head, the lifting of his eyes to find her, standing in front of the murder board in grey slacks and a fitted pink blouse. Her hands rest on her hips in fists; her hair is loose and in waves that appear golden in the morning light streaming through the windows.

She's gorgeous. Venus arising (she would roll her eyes at him about now). And even though last night Castle was at his loft, spending time with Alexis since she was visiting from college, he can still feel immediately the hard angles of her body against his in bed, he can bring to mind instantly the smile she gives him in the morning when she wakes him up. How she wakes him up.

Kate raises her arm to write information at the top of the white board - the long line of her legs in those grey pants, the skinny black belt, the pink blouse tucked into her trim waist, the rather full curve of her breasts and-

Wait.

What? Go back.

Her profile cuts a sharp figure against the light coming in the windows, making her almost a dark blur in his eyes. But that means he sees every hard angle, every jut of elbow and jaw and collarbone. And where he should see the arch of her hipbones, there is instead-

A curve.

A thickening that - that - but - no.

No.

Richard Castle knows every line and curve of her body (very little curve to it, just svelte, liquid line), and he knows that isn't right, knows with a clarity that is both startling and intimate that the thickening, the curve, the round nudge of her shirt as her arm lifts-

He counts back in his head and tries to think about it clearly, logically, not with his wildly, heart-thumping, crazy-excited side, and he can't come up with anything other than-

Pregnant.

And damn.

He forgot to get her coffee.

Talk about omens.

No good day begins without coffee.

* * *

><p>Beckett rolls her eyes as she unlocks her apartment door, leaves it wide for Castle to follow along inside. She drops her stuff in the floor - totally not her style, but when he's here with her, she doesn't want to waste time. She heads to the kitchen; the bulletproof vest dug into her chest this afternoon and it still aches. Ug. Pitfalls of being a girl.<p>

Castle vetoed Chinese and deli sandwiches both, some strange look in his eye that she can't yet figure out. But he agreed to pizza and even left early to pick it up, meeting her here. Her stomach growls at the smell of meat lovers, and she grins at him before pulling out plates.

"So what's up with you today?" she asks finally, opening the box and stepping out of her shoes as she does.

Castle leans over and scoops them up (she loves messing with him about it; he hates it when he trips over her shoes left lying around the apartment). She watches him move back to the entry and drop them on top of her coat and bag, grinning wider.

"Nothing's up with me. Did Ryan finish your paperwork?"

If that's not a massive subject change, then what is? But she only quirks her lips at him and digs into her pizza, groaning in relief.

He's immediately at her side, a hand at her back, his mouth against her ear. "Are you okay?"

Which is really not what she expected. Any time she even makes a hint of satisfied noise (okay, whenever she _moans_), he's usually ready to take her to bed. _Are you okay?_ is not exactly what she thought would be coming out of his mouth.

Kate bumps him away from her. "Personal space, Castle. I'm starving is all. Get us something to drink?"

She takes both of their plates to the table and sits, more than surprised when he comes back with water.

All right. They don't have wine every night, and sure, it's only pizza but. . .

Whatever. She's not interested in peeling away the layers of his psyche right now. She wants to eat her pizza and then peel away his clothes. Forget slowly. Every time she tries to take her time, make it last, savor it, she ends up coming apart, losing control, long - long - before he does.

It's really not fair that *Castle* is the one with more control in bed.

Well. Sometimes it's more than fair.

Kate quirks her lips at him again and he stares back at her. "You keep looking at me like that and you won't get a chance to finish your pizza," he growls.

She drops her slice. "I'm game. Let's go-"

He laughs, but grabs her wrist as she moves to stand. His finger brushes along the inside of her wrist, too tender. "No, no. You need to eat. It can wait. Isn't that what you're always telling me? We have all the time in the world."

She sinks back down into her chair, uncertain by this change in pace. Castle never says no. And what the hell? Throwing her words back in her face. She tells him that every time he opens his mouth to spill some heart-deep secret, every time he tries to label them or profess his undying love.

No need for that right now. It's not like they're getting married.

"Plenty of time, Kate. Besides, what I've got planned, you're going to need your strength."

She flashes her eyes back to his, heat already climbing up her body.

That's more like it.

* * *

><p>Castle wakes to find her already up, messing around in the bathroom before she showers. He grabs his phone to check the time, then sees his daughter texted him an all-clear. Meaning, if he does his walk of shame back to the loft, she's already out the door, headed back to campus, and won't see it.<p>

Little imp.

He rolls onto his other side so he can watch Kate through the bathroom door. She's got not a stitch of clothing on; gloriously naked and amazing, she leans in against the counter and rubs sleep out of her eye. He watches her brush her teeth, her hair scraped back off her face, and then fill up a glass of water and down nearly the whole thing in one swallow.

Like it's vodka.

Did she notice that he avoided wine all evening? Probably not. And oh, damn, look at that. How can she not notice it? Now that he sees it, he really sees it, and his heart pounds so hard that he thinks he's making the mattress vibrate. She could be three months pregnant already; she *looks* three months pregnant. Not that she looks bad. No-

It's like she's not holding in her abs; it's like she's thickened just a little bit. And it's the sexiest, scariest thing he's ever seen.

How's he supposed to-

He just won't tell her. He could be wrong. He's probably wrong. There's no way he's going to tell *any* woman that she looks thicker around the middle. Suicide mission. Not that Kate has ever really cared - she's too self-assured for that, or too confident of her ability to take off whatever she might gain. One of those.

Still. He's not bringing it up.

Kate refills her water and opens the medicine cabinet, pulls down a clam shell looking thing, pops it open.

His heart stops.

Castle jumps out of bed, knocking his knee against the dresser, causing her to startle and look over at him, her actions arrested.

When she sees it's just him, Kate pops out a pill and goes to throw it back.

"No! Wait. Don't."

Castle stops in front of her, tears the birth control pill out of her hand and drops it in the toilet.

"Castle!"

"You can't-"

"What the hell!" She's staring at him in stunned horror. And then immediately that fierce and blazing anger sweeps over her whole body. She shoves on him. "What the hell? This is *not* how you have a conversation about whether or not you want kids, Castle. And that's a no, by the way. Hell no."

"Too late," he mutters, running his hand through his hair. He doesn't know for sure that birth control pills will harm the - the - oh shit, if *he* can't even think it, how in the world will Kate react?

"Damn straight it's too late. You threw it in the toilet!" She's vibrating with fury; her eyes that dark and deadly glint.

But she's already popping out another pill and his chest squeezes, his hands move of their own volition, and he's ripped the little case away from her before she can take one.

Her fury is instantly replaced with a cold and terrible stillness. Kate steps back from him, walks away.

He watches her pull on a tshirt, shorts, and then keep walking. Out of her bedroom.

Castle looks at her birth control, but he can't risk-

What if she doesn't want it? What if it doesn't matter anyway? All this. . .protecting and it might not even matter. If she refuses.

His mouth fills with bile; he has to lean against the shower door to keep from falling over.

If she refuses.

No. No, he won't let her. He will convince her it's okay. He'll. . .he'll do anything. Even, even, even give her up. If that's what it takes. She can carry the baby to term, and he'll take it; she won't have to do anything; he'll walk away from her.

He closes his eyes and sinks to the floor, sick at the thought, waves of terrible grief rolling over him.

Damn, he's melodramatic. Man up, Richard. This won't happen. He won't let it happen. They didn't go through absolute hell only to have it end because she's not ready to talk about the future.

He opens his eyes, starts to get to his feet, but he notices that Kate has come back, quietly, and she's leaning against the doorway, staring at him. The anger is still there, the coldness, not a whole lot of hope written in her face, but just that she came to find him. . .

"You want to tell me what's up with you, Castle? Or you want me to kick you out?"

"I don't think this is working," he says, and in the instant before he can hold up her birth control, he sees the shock and sick sorrow spread through her eyes.

And then she *does* see the birth control, but it's too late. He's already seen what it does to her, thinking that he's giving up on them.

And *that* - that gives him hope. Because he is *not* and will not be giving up on them.

"What are you saying?" she growls out.

"Look at yourself, Kate. Just. Really look. And tell me I'm wrong."

She glares at him for a long time, flames of anger still flickering in her eyes. And then she points her finger at him. "You stay there."

He's startled when she shuts the bathroom door on him, leaving him inside with her out there. Castle gets to his feet and moves to the door, close enough to strain for any kind of sound.

She must be looking at herself in the mirror. He wants, so very badly, to see her face when she does. When she accepts it as the truth. Because there's no doubt in his mind.

Castle leans his forehead against the door, breathing slowly. He's afraid to leave the bathroom, but he wants to know. Needs to know. Needs to look in her eyes when she figures it out, because that will be her heart's reaction, not her head's. If he can see that, then he'll know. He'll know if it's going to be okay.

He puts his hand on the knob, swallows down the knot of panic, and slowly twists open the door.

She's pulled everything off and all the lights are on, as well as all the shutters open. She's looking at herself in the floor-length mirror next to her dresser, her fingers skimming over her belly button.

He catches his breath at the sight, a dark and terribly beautiful need clawing at his throat. Castle shifts slowly to one side so that he can see her face but she can't see him.

Her breasts are heavy, now that he's looking. Her thumb presses into her hipbones and then slides inward; her breath hitches.

He watches her face, staring at her; he needs to see-

And there it is. The reflection of his own dark and beautiful need now in her eyes.

And then gone.

"Kate."

She doesn't turn, doesn't flinch, only drops her head in her hands, hiding herself away from him, from the truth. His heart twists, but he moves up behind her, turns her around, wraps his arms around her shoulders even as she shudders.

"This can work, Kate. We can make this work."

She's stiff in his arms, not yielding to his touch, her head turned away from him, her hands at his chest to keep him away.

"Please try," his voice cracks. "Please. Please don't. . .please, Kate."

"I can't do this-"

The tears burn in his throat, but he presses his lips to her temple, her cheekbone, her mouth, trying to silence her instinctive need for distance and space and denial.

"You don't have to. I'll do it. I'll do anything."

Her shoulders hunch. "I can't talk about this right now. Castle. Leave me-"

"I won't. Not on my life. I am *not* leaving you alone."

"Castle." He can tell that she's trying to put some command in her voice, but she's still too stunned, too shaken, too unnerved.

"I've got your back, Kate."

"This isn't-"

"You told me to let it be. You said take it one day at a time. I've done that for you. Now do that for me."

"I need to get dressed," she says, pushing on him.

"Kate."

Castle captures her face in his palms, keeps his eyes on hers. He *knows* he saw it, just a fraction of a second's worth of that bloom of love. He knows he did. He will fight for that.

"This is my whole life here. Right here. Don't take it away from me. I need you."

He slides his thumb across her cheek to erase the evidence of her solitary tear. She closes her eyes but doesn't jerk away from him.

"Give me time, Castle."

Yes. Yes, he can do that. "So long as you're not asking for space, we can give it all the time in the world. It's just the beginning, Kate."

* * *

><p>They aren't even living together.<p>

When she drifts back to consciousness, this is the only thing she can think. Well, that and how heavy her body is, how curiously paper thin but still so very weighed down.

She's fine. She'll be fine. Because she may have been moved into his loft against her will, but she's headed straight back to her apartment the second she gets out of here.

With her son.

Her heart flutters and she opens her eyes, searching for him.

Instead, there's Castle.

And he looks scared.

Kate realizes suddenly that she doesn't know what happened to her. There was. . .the baby was here, he was holding the baby, and then. . .everything felt so far away. Her body was listless and heavy; she felt sick. She remembers trying to get his attention, the wave of exhaustion rolling down over her, flattening her out, and then she was losing it, losing herself, and darkness, and the sound of his voice, hoarse, pleading-

Something happened.

Castle has the baby against his chest, his wide palm splayed over the boy's back, his cheek nestled against the pale skin, the fingers of his right hand curling around the baby's tiny skull. He's holding her son as if he's afraid he'll never see him again, like someone might take him as well.

And then Kate lifts her eyes to his face. He looks hollowed out.

"Ca - Castle," she rasps, wanting to hold him. She's not sure which one.

He lifts his eyes to see her, relief and grief and joy in a blue swirl. "Oh God, Kate."

He stands and comes closer, but he doesn't give her the baby, just keeps his arms tight around the little thing, so very small.

"Happened?" she chokes out, trying to clear her throat. She realizes that even if he did hand him to her, she might not be able to hold him. Her whole body feels stretched too far.

"You were bleeding. You almost died."

She blinks. "Everything was fine."

"They didn't deliver all of the placenta. And you just bled and bled. Kate. God, I was standing in your blood-"

Castle shuts his eyes, his arms strong bands around the baby.

Her heart drops. She can't - can't do it.

Castle leans over and presses his mouth to hers, heavy and afraid, like a choked-off sob, and his forehead rests against hers; the baby is right there at his chest, so close she can lift her hand and brush her fingers over the fuzz of dark hair.

Seeing the wretched grief on Castle's face, she can't do it. She can't take her son back to her apartment, just the two of them, and leave Castle alone with this. She had a plan; she knew she could handle it (and she's not sure she can handle Castle); they never have to actually make any real plans, even now; nothing has to be permanent.

But she can't take her son with her across town to live in her apartment, the two of them alone, when Rick Castle wants him - both of them - so badly.

So badly. Every line of his body, every expression on his face.

She has a lot to make up to him.

"Sit with me," she whispers into his cheek, her eyes on her baby son.

"What?" Castle whispers.

Kate does her best to slide over, but her strength is gone. "Move me over. Sit with me, Castle. I need my son."

"Oh. Um." He stands up, but he looks like he doesn't want to put the baby down either. She grunts and does the best she can to move.

"Now squeeze in," she demands, laying her head back and gulping down air, her heart racing.

Must've been bad. She must have lost a lot of blood, for it to feel like this. She opens her eyes when she feels his hip against hers, his body in the bed.

She remembers a pretty nasty argument about three months ago when she found a list of baby names up on his fridge. She told him that this was her kid and there was no way in hell she was letting him name her baby _Thor Castle._ That's when it came out - the idea he had that the baby would have his last name at all.

Also not in her plan.

No, this kid would be a Beckett.

But now.

She swallows hard and rolls her head to see him, them, Castle too of course. She curls against Castle's shoulder to get as close to the sleeping baby as she can. Kate can't keep her arm from shaking as she brushes her fingers over the downy hair. Like a little dark rabbit.

Castle lifts his hand from the baby's head and traps her fingers, guides her palm down until she can curl around the little skull, the heel of her hand against his soft, tiny ear.

"Thank you," she whispers, pressing her lips to Castle's shoulder.

"Oh, God, Kate. Thank *you.*" He gives a shaky, soft laugh and turns his head to her, placing his mouth at her lashes as she closes her eyes. Soft.

"I know his name," she says suddenly, lifting her head a little to look at him right.

"Yeah?"

She nods. For him. It's for him, and she picked it long ago because she wanted to be sure that he knew that - no matter her crap attitude or their living arrangement - that this baby was because of him.

"What's his name?" Castle says softly.

"Dashiell Alexander."

The startled breath next to her; the nearly-imperceptible tightening of his hand over hers on top of the baby's head - she smiles at him, still exhausted and wrung out from blood loss, but the answering joy on his face gives her an exhilarated strength that spreads like warmth through her whole being.

"Yeah?" he breathes.

She nods. Dashiell Alexander. _He will be extremely important to you._ Alexander would save her life, right? Maybe it *is* fate. Or maybe she just made the words come true.

Castle's mouth meets hers, warm and excited and trying to be tender but failing miserably, failing, and she swipes her tongue across his bottom lip, leaning against him.

When he breaks away, she finds herself chasing after his mouth, curls her lips in a smile for him.

He palms her cheek, brushes just under her eye with an answering smile. Then Castle raises his knees and gently pries their son from his chest, lays him back against his thighs. The baby squirms, eyes still tightly closed, little mouth opening, a wrapped fist moving.

Castle clears his throat and strokes a long finger down the side of the baby's face.

"We know your name now," he whispers.

Kate leans against Castle's shoulder, lifts her hand to his thigh to steady herself, brushes her thumb over the baby's warm cheek, the impression left from Castle's tshirt.

The little eyes don't open, but that fist is moving, the long, little body squirms. Kate chews on her lip and then eases forward to kiss the baby's forehead, lips barely brushing his skin.

She trembles, but Castle catches her with an arm around her chest, pulls her back against his side. Kate lifts her hand to cover his over her heart, brings his palm up to kiss it.

Castle kisses her back, his mouth at her neck, a sigh in his throat, relief and happiness. Kate wants to see her baby look at them, wants Castle to know, to be sure, about her.

About all of it.

"Dash," she whispers. "Dashiell Alexander Castle. Open your eyes for mommy and daddy."

And then he does. Little squints of newborn-blue, staring right at her.

"Castle?" Dash's father whispers.

"Castle."

Castle.


End file.
